


Worst-Case Scenario

by cassandraoftroy



Series: Defying Expectations [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Discussion of Consent Issues, Inappropriate Use of a Mop Handle, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandraoftroy/pseuds/cassandraoftroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has a backup plan in case his heat suppressants ever wear off in the middle of a bad situation. But he never counted on magic throwing a monkey-wrench into his preparations. Now Steve has to hope that his own contingency plan will be enough to protect them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks to [cygna_hime](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygna_hime/pseuds/Cygna_hime) and [mechanosapience](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanosapience/pseuds/Mechanosapience) for their beta-reading efforts (and blame for cygna_hime for encouraging me to write this to begin with)! This is my first attempt at A/B/O fic; I had this idea that just wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> Just as fair warning, this story isn't going to end up being incredibly porny; the rating is for the one masturbation scene about halfway through. I just don't want to disappoint anybody coming in looking forward to sex scenes.

Standing on the bridge of the Helicarrier at the beginning of a mission had become familiar to Steve in the past eight months – the whole flying-aircraft-carrier thing didn't even cross his mind anymore most days – but something about this op felt very different. Agent Hill, normally calm and stoic to the point of provoking Tony into android jokes, paced back and forth across the command deck like a caged predator. Her gaze flicked between the monitors and the main window, and her fingers kept clenching into uneasy fists.

Her agitation did not escape Fury's notice. "We're closing in on the target, Agent," he told her in an undertone. "The strike team heads out in fifteen."

Hill straightened, coming to attention before the Director. "I'd like to be part of that team, sir."

Fury shook his head. "I need you here. When the facility is secured, I'll –"

"I'm a capable field operative," she interrupted, her posture turning aggressive. "I can be an asset on this op."

"I'm aware of your skills, _Agent,"_ Fury said, an edge of warning lacing his tone, "but I have other capable field operatives, and only one Deputy Director. With you here coordinating the strike team, this mission is a lot more likely to succeed." The big man took a step closer to Hill, his posture relaxing slightly. It was only Steve's serum-enhanced hearing that allowed him to catch Fury's next words: "I'll make sure you're on the ground the moment we find him."

The aggression in Hill's stance subsided a little, and she nodded once. "Thank you, sir."

When the Director turned to Steve, he kept his expression neutral, as though he had paid no attention to the exchange. "Captain," Fury told him, "assemble your team. I want you in the Quinjet and ready to move in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir." He turned and headed for the hangar, reaching for his comm to round up the rest of the Avengers on the way.

***

He'd been told that Hydra had reconstituted itself in the wake of Schmidt's death on the _Valkyrie;_ he'd read the briefing memos and seen archival footage, but it hadn't seemed real until he was confronted with soldiers wearing the skull-and-tentacles insignia that appeared all too often in his dreams. He didn't let it shake him for more than a moment before he was in motion again, shouting orders to Iron Man and Hawkeye, and hurling his shield to take out a machine gun emplacement.

They pressed deeper into the facility, further underground, and SHIELD agents swept in behind them to secure the levels the Avengers had cleared. Natasha took point as they descended to a new floor, then fell back to let Steve and his shield take the lead as they came into the open. Time always seemed to stretch and dilate during battle, but Steve was sure it couldn't have been more than ten or twelve minutes before he caught a hint of a familiar but profoundly unexpected scent. He raised his head and inhaled sharply, a surge of instinct putting his senses on high alert. Without making a conscious decision, he paced toward the source of the odor.

Two Hydra agents stood between him and the heavy steel door; their bullets ricocheted harmlessly off his shield as he closed in. He slammed one into the wall, then wrenched the assault rifle out of the second man's grip and drove the stock hard into his solar plexus. Pausing only long enough to see that their heads lolled in unconsciousness and to retrieve a set of keys from the second agent's belt, Steve turned his attention to the door. The unmistakeable smell was stronger here, though this was the last place it belonged: an omega in heat.

When the door swung open, Steve stood in the threshold, shocked into stillness by the sight beyond. It was a small room, cold and sparse, and he recognized the telltale furnishings of a torture chamber. The single occupant of the room, a bald man wearing a filthy and tattered suit, was manacled to a pair of rings embedded in the low ceiling, the chains short enough to force him to stand on tiptoe. A metal folding chair stood in one corner of the room, well out of the man's reach, and held a car battery and a set of jumper cables.

The man himself bore the signs of repeated violence, with fresh purple and black marks covering the yellow-green mottling of old bruises. His lip was split in two places and scabbed over, and the last two fingers of his left hand were held stiffly outward, swollen with fracture. His shirt had been torn halfway open, revealing more bruising and several angry-looking burns. But by far the most noticeable thing about him to Steve's roused senses was the torrent of pungent fluid that stained the crotch and one leg of his suit trousers dark and slick under the harsh fluorescent light.

Their mission briefing had mentioned a SHIELD agent who had been captured by Hydra forces three weeks ago. Steve realized, with a sick jolt, that _this_ must be that prisoner, that Agent Sitwell. He was also the source of that overpowering heat-scent, and the realization that the man had gone into heat while being tortured by Hydra cut through Steve's burgeoning arousal like an electric shock. He stared, horrified, at the man who hadn't even been able to raise his head when the door opened.

"Stand aside, Rogers." The order that came from behind him was more than half snarl. He turned to find Agent Hill standing in the corridor, her feet braced in a fighting stance and her right hand curled around her sidearm, holding it at the ready but not leveling it at him – yet.

He hung the key ring on the doorknob and retreated out of the room, toward Hill, his empty hands upraised and clearly visible. The moment she was certain of his compliance, she jammed the gun back in its holster and shoved past him into the cell. Again her manner shifted; her shoulders relaxed and she leaned forward solicitously as she approached the restrained man, her hands reaching out to touch his face. "Jasper! It's all right, I'm here. I'll get you out of this, take you back home. It's going to be okay."

Finally the other man lifted his head, eyes squinting slightly as he focused on her face. "Maria," he rasped, barely above a whisper; Steve's enhanced hearing made him feel uncomfortably voyeuristic as the intimate scene played out in front of him, and he tried to focus on watching the corridor to ensure the two agents would not be interrupted. But the only sound was the jingle of keys and clank of chains as Hill released the man from his bonds and eased an arm under his shoulders, and the noise drew his eyes. He saw Hill kiss the man's forehead and then his mouth, catching his lower lip with her teeth, claiming him; Sitwell relaxed into her touch, letting her take the strain off his trembling legs as she supported his weight with her arms.

Under any other circumstances, Steve would have offered to help carry the injured man back to the SHIELD transport vehicles, but there was no way Agent Hill would read any movement toward Sitwell as anything other than a challenge right now. Even after all he'd seen, Steve's cock still twitched uncomfortably in response to the powerful pheromones the wounded agent was giving off. So he kept a respectful distance, covering their retreat back to the transport.

The rest of the mopping-up work took another two and a half hours; the individual currently leading Hydra's efforts managed to evacuate the base before he could be identified, much less captured, but the chemical weapons the group had been manufacturing were rounded up for safe destruction – and Steve intended to follow up with Fury to make sure that SHIELD actually intended to _destroy_ them, this time. The Avengers had split up to focus on different tasks in the aftermath of the fight, so Steve had plenty of relative privacy to stew on a new worry. It wasn't until the base had been completely secured, the explosive charges set, and the Avengers and SHIELD personnel returned to the Helicarrier, that Steve managed to catch up with the object of his concerns.

"Tony," he called, jogging a little to close the distance between himself and the other man.

Tony paused in the corridor and turned, lifting the faceplate of his armor to look at Steve directly. "What's up, Cap?"

Steve was only a little disappointed at the use of the title instead of his name; he'd shifted to using Stark's first name when he realized that the name "Tony" made the man feel like Steve was talking to _him,_ rather than a poor copy of a dead man. Steve told himself that it didn't mean anything, that Tony probably assumed he wanted to discuss something Avengers-related – which, in a sense, he did. It was his responsibility as commander to look out for his team.

Still, there was no good way to bring up something like this, and he didn't want Tony to brush it off, or worse, interpret his concern as a lack of confidence in Iron Man's abilities. He sighed. "Something came up during today's mission that showed me we need some contingency plans," he began.

"All right," Tony agreed, facing him fully and beginning to unfasten his armored gauntlets. "Is this something we should assemble the team for?"

"No, nothing like that," Steve protested. "This is more of a... personal issue." Ignoring the skeptical expression on Tony's face, he plunged on. "Today we rescued an agent who had gone into heat while in enemy captivity. It looked like we got to him before – before anything happened, but it was close, and fortunately his alpha was right there when we found him."

Understanding crossed Tony's features. "And you're worried about what could happen to the only omega on your team, especially since he doesn't _have_ an alpha," he observed.

"I just think we should discuss how you want things to be handled in case something goes wrong," Steve explained. "If there's anyone we should call, or if we should just lock you in a broom closet until it's over, or what."

Tony shook his head. "Not gonna be a problem. I thought about this a lot after Afghanistan – and believe me, I know what a bullet I dodged there, having my suppressant injection a week before getting on that plane – and it's not a risk I intend to take again." He glanced up and down the corridor; the hallway they were standing in led to the Avengers' quarters and personal laboratory space, so unlike most of the Helicarrier decks immediately following an operation, it wasn't swarming with SHIELD agents. "Each of my suits is equipped with an injector ready to dose me with six months' worth of artificial hormones the second I give the word, if my suppressants run out. And," he continued, raising a finger to forestall Steve's objection, "I know what you're thinking – _'But Tony, what happens if you're captured and don't have your armor?'_ – and I've thought of that, too." He took a couple of steps closer to Steve, pitching his voice low. "There's a little hollow space built into my arc reactor, where I keep a micro-syringe with a second dose of suppressants. I can pull the reactor out of its socket without unplugging the leads, and get at the needle even if I'm captured and they take the suit. Because let's be honest, if they've taken the reactor too, I'm pretty much fucked regardless." He took a step back, holding out his arms in an expansive gesture. "Does that put your concerns to rest?"

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, and the too-recent image of that SHIELD agent chained up in that cell, wet and helpless and sending out pheromone signals to every alpha within a mile, plastered itself across his mind's eye. "Just humor me," he said, opening his eyes to look at his friend. "If the impossible _does_ happen, how do you want it handled?"

"It's really not gonna happen," Tony insisted, but when he met Steve's gaze, he sighed and held up his hands in defeat. "But sure, _in the event_ – that thing you mentioned with the broom closet is as good an idea as any." He rolled his eyes, but offered a lopsided grin. "Feel better now?"

The tension that had been pooling low in Steve's stomach began to trickle away. "Yeah, actually. Thanks. So what did you have in mind for the Avengers' post-combat meal this time?"

Tony's grin widened. "Ever have Moroccan food? There's this little place I've been meaning to try..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I managed Amora's characterization all right here, since she hasn't appeared yet in the MCU. Things are about to get _interesting_...

Thor liked to tell stories about the adventures he and his friends had back home, slaying monsters and battling armies, but it was becoming clear to Tony that the rest of the team still didn't know enough about Asgard – like the fact that its major export was apparently lunatic magicians with a penchant for world domination. _I'll be sure to update the Wikipedia page when this is over._

The mad wizard _du jour_ was a woman with flowing blond hair. She was clad in green, making Tony wonder if the color was some sort of Asgardian shorthand for psychotic villainy, or if she and Loki just had the same tailor. She had appeared in the middle of Times Square, stopping traffic with her captivating beauty – literally, as she had some sort of spell working that made most of Manhattan's rush hour commuters want to kneel at her feet the moment they saw her.

Unfortunately, the sorceress's magic meant that the Avengers' strength was down by half, since Cap, Hawkeye, and Hulk were benched for this fight. As another Asgardian, Thor had some resistance to the woman's spells, and was leading the charge. Natasha was in the thick of it too, coordinating their field tactics in Cap's stead – that strange quirk of Asgardian physiology meant that this Enchantress's seductive power targeted men, regardless of their dynamic, but not women. He never had gotten a satisfactory explanation out of Thor about his people's biology; apparently they were all betas, or something? He dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

As was so often the case, it was the armor that protected Tony from the effects of the enthrallment – or rather, it was the cameras in his helmet. Seeing her image on his HUD wasn't enough to ensorcell him; as long as he kept the faceplate down, his mind would remain his own. SHIELD was trying to outfit Hawkeye and Cap with video goggles that would have the same effect, but until they got a working prototype that wouldn't completely fuck over Hawkeye's depth perception, the three of them were on their own. _Not that I'd blame Clint for not running right out to face another crazy Asgardian with mind-control powers._ Tony was taking Clint's usual job of keeping eyes in the sky and tracking the enemy's movements for Natasha, which was no easy task when faced with an adversary who can teleport.

–Which she did, the moment that thought passed through Tony's head. He swept the battlefield with his gaze, trying to spot her again, but found nothing. Changing his trajectory to take in a different angle, he landed on a rooftop overlooking the square, focusing on the information flowing through his HUD.

"Such strange creatures you mortals are," came a sultry voice from behind him. He pivoted as fast as his armor would allow, and found the Enchantress standing only a few paces away from him, eyeing him with predatory interest.

He threw a repulsor blast at her, but it deflected harmlessly off some sort of magical force-field, causing the air between them to ripple momentarily. She cocked her head at him in apparent puzzlement. "Never have I encountered a race so intent on denying their own desires," she continued. Tony charged up his wrist-mounted lasers and leveled both fists at her, but she simply vanished, only to reappear beside him when the lasers had expended their full charge. "You would rather pump chemicals into your blood than give in to the needs of your body. That is simply not right." She extended a finger toward Tony, and before he could react, a bolt of crimson light shot from her hand and into his chest. Then she disappeared again, the sound of high-pitched laughter trailing in her wake.

"I've lost her again," Tony reported over the comm line, scanning the nearby rooftops and the streets below. "She was just up here, and nothing I threw at her would stick. I'm–" A flash of fever-warmth shot through him, and settled somewhere south of his navel. It took him several seconds to recognize the sensation; he hadn't experienced it in years. _Oh God. Not now._ "JARVIS, emergency suppressants, now."

"That would be inadvisable, Sir," JARVIS replied. "Your vital readings show that your current dose of heat suppressant remains active in your bloodstream. Exceeding the recommended dose could cause permanent damage to a number of your organ systems."

Tony felt a hypersensitive tingling sensation building across his skin, so that every tiny movement he made in the close-fitting flight suit set his nerve endings on fire. Slickness was already starting to build up in his boxers, and he felt the first stirring of an erection. "Damn it, JARVIS," he ground out through clenched teeth, "just jab me already. The suppressants aren't working."

"On the contrary, Sir," the AI explained, concern and regret clear in its smoothly simulated voice, "the attack you experienced did not affect the suppressant hormones at all. It appears to have circumvented them entirely, triggering a–"

"I _know_ what it triggered," Tony snapped. He was already starting to feel the craving, the _need,_ to be filled – to be fucked – to be claimed. The armor felt so confining, so constricting, he had to get it off, had to find– 

He shook his head, trying to fight clear of the fog of lust for a moment. "I'm out of the fight," he reported over the comm. "She did something to me. I can't..."

"Are you all right, Stark?" It was Natasha; Tony's cock twitched longingly at the sound of an alpha's voice.

"No," he said simply, and took off, heading back to the Tower as fast as he could push the suit.

* * *

Steve's knee jiggled as he perched on the edge of the stool, listening to the comm traffic over a borrowed earpiece. He'd had to switch off the microphone; Natasha was a good field commander and an excellent tactician, and didn't need him second-guessing her orders out of a desperate need to be involved. He looked down at himself, clad in his kevlar-lined uniform, with his shield propped against the legs of his stool. _All dressed up and nowhere to go,_ came the frustrated thought. _I feel like I'm back on that ridiculous USO tour._

At the other end of the room, one of the SHIELD techs was hovering around Clint, fussing with the settings on the pair of electronic goggles the archer was wearing. From the sound of things, the tech wasn't meeting with much success. "No good," Hawkeye told the man. "Every time I move my head, the image blurs; I'm starting to get motion-sick over here."

"Let me try speeding up the frame rate," the technician offered, and Steve stopped paying attention, covering the ear that didn't hold the comm unit. From the sound of things, the fight wasn't going well. Natasha's voice was tense, and it sounded like they'd lost track of the sorceress.

Then he heard a female voice that wasn't Natasha's at all. It sounded distant, like it was being picked up by one of the team's microphones from further away. Steve recognized the distinctive sound of a repulsor discharge; the sorceress must have been near Iron Man. She spoke again, and Steve felt himself grow more tense with every word she uttered. By the time Iron Man uttered his final response to Natasha and dropped off the comm, Steve was already moving.

He plucked the goggles neatly from Hawkeye's face and handed them back to the tech. "We're done here," he told the man, grabbing the archer's arm and heading for the door.

Clint followed him silently until they reached the corridor. "Not that I don't appreciate being saved from the technological Tilt-O-Whirl," he said, "but where are we going?"

"Tony's in trouble," Steve replied. His protective instincts were already kicking in hard with the knowledge that one of _his team_ was in danger, making conversation into an unusual effort.

"Hold on." Clint pulled up short, and was nearly hauled off his feet before Steve realized the other man had stopped. "We can't go up against this Enchantress without some kind of protection. I was about ready to hurl in there, but I'd take that over mind control any day."

Steve shook his head. "We're not going to Times Square." He touched the comm earpiece with one hand. "From the sound of it, she's disappeared anyway."

Clint frowned. "Then where...?"

"He'll go back to the Tower," Steve explained. "We need to hurry."

With a nod, Clint fell into step behind Steve again. "So, we're stealing a Quinjet, then?"

"Borrowing," he corrected. "We're _borrowing_ a Quinjet. You'll bring it back as soon as I'm inside."

"You're not gonna need backup?" Clint asked.

"Not that kind of problem." Steve didn't elaborate, and he was relieved that Hawkeye didn't push. His team trusted him to make the right calls; he was about to prove whether he deserved that confidence. Steve offered a silent prayer that he wouldn't let his teammate down as they entered the hangar.

It was a short flight from the Helicarrier's position in the skies off the Long Island coast. Hawkeye brought the Quinjet up to hover above Iron Man's landing platform, and armed only with a small backpack, Steve made the jump out of the rear of the plane, landing in a roll to soften the impact.

When he opened the glass door leading into the penthouse, the heat pheromones hit him like a city bus. He leaned against the door jamb, taking shallow breaths through his mouth to try to minimize the effects of the odor on his body. It didn't help much; within moments of stepping into the apartment, his cock was rock-hard and aching with need. _Tony must be dripping wet by now, for his scent to be this strong. I've got to find him; got to–_

"I'm afraid this isn't the best time, Captain Rogers." The voice of Tony's AI cut through the haze of hormones clouding Steve's thoughts, bringing him back to himself. He clenched one fist, digging blunt fingernails into his palm as hard as he could; the sharp pain helped keep him from slipping back into the pheromone fog, kept him on track.

He glanced at the ceiling, as had become his habit when addressing the AI. "I know, JARVIS. That sorceress did something to Tony, and I promised him – if this ever happened, I'd make sure nobody did anything that he didn't want."

JARVIS seemed to consider this. "Very well, Captain. Though I must caution you, Mr. Stark's behavior is erratic – more so than usual. I cannot anticipate how he will respond to your presence."

He squeezed his fist, sending four little spikes of pain through his hand. "I'll be careful," he promised. "Now where is–"

The AI's exclamation was the only warning Steve had, but it only left him with time to turn around as Tony launched himself at him. He wasn't heavy enough to knock Steve over, but the moment it took for Steve to regain his balance gave Tony the opportunity to twine his arms around Steve's neck and hitch one leg around his hip. "Glad you made it, Uncle Sam," Tony purred against his ear, "I've got something for you." He ground his hips against Steve's crotch, and Steve could feel the wetness soaking the other man's boxers; those, and a black _Metallica_ t-shirt, were all Tony had on.

_No. No. No. No._ Steve repeated it to himself like a mantra, forcing himself to focus through the burning need that pulsed through him. _God, Tony smells so good..._ NO. He drove his nails into the meat of his thumb hard enough to draw blood, concentrating on the pain, savoring it. He remembered himself again, remembered what he was doing. He had to get Tony out of here, somewhere safe, somewhere _away_ from everyone, like he'd promised. He scooped Tony's other leg off the floor, letting him cling and nuzzle and whisper filthy words in his ear. He started moving.

With every step, Tony's body rubbed against his in a way that Steve desperately wanted to enjoy. The pain in his hand was no longer enough to drown out the instincts that were screaming at him louder with every passing second to claim the eager and needy omega in his arms; he slipped his tongue between his clenched teeth and bit down hard. It helped, some. But wouldn't for long.

There was a door in the corridor they were passing through. Steve struggled to recognize it; he didn't think it was used much, so he wasn't sure where it led. He opened it with his free hand. Inside was a narrow space, lined with shelving units that held cleaning supplies and rows of cardboard boxes. _Broom closet. Guess I'll be keeping that promise pretty literally._

Before he could think too much about what he was doing, he dropped Tony's leg, then reached up and pulled the other man's arms free of their grip around his neck. With a hard shove just above the arc reactor, he sent Tony stumbling back into the closet; the other man tripped over a mop, but Steve was relieved to see him catch himself with his hands before he could crack his head against the hard floor. Trying to ignore the stricken look on his teammate's face, he shrugged out of the backpack and tossed it inside the room, then yanked the door shut and twisted the toggle that locked it.

Almost immediately the pounding and shouting started from the other side of the door. "Steve! What the hell? Let me out of here! I need you! Please – open up!" Steve leaned his back against the door and let his legs give out on him, sliding down the solid wood until he sat crouched on the floor, head in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, but refused to cover his ears against Tony's increasingly frantic cries; _If he has to suffer, then so will I._ His imagination refused to let go of that final expression of shock and betrayal that crossed Tony's features just before Steve shut the door, playing it over and over on the inside of his eyelids; finally Steve opened his eyes, staring blankly at the pattern of the carpet that covered the floor of the hallway. He had no idea how long it took for Tony's shouts to fade to whimpers, but it felt like hours.

When Steve finally forced himself to his feet again, he realized how little time must have actually passed since he found the closet; the front of his uniform trousers was still damp where Tony had rubbed against him. The pungent smell of the pheromone-laden fluid made something in his gut twist, and his erection began stirring to life again. He wiped his hand against his leg, trying to clean off the scent. "JARVIS," he said softly, hoping the AI's hearing was better than Tony's, "let me know when the others get back to the Tower, okay?"

"Certainly, Captain," JARVIS agreed. "I've been monitoring the activities of the other Avengers through the communications device you brought with you." Steve felt for his missing earpiece; it must have fallen out when Tony tackled him. "Their debriefing is nearly complete, so I expect they shall be returning shortly."

Usually, that news would have relieved him. During a crisis, Steve preferred to have the team close by, so they could support each other, and so he would know they were all safe. But now, the thought of anyone else entering their shared living space made his muscles tense and his breath quicken. Natasha was an alpha; she could hardly fail to notice the smell of Tony's heat, and Steve doubted she would be any less affected by it than he was. He still didn't know enough about Asgardian biology to say whether Thor would respond to omega pheromones – he hoped not; he didn't like his chances against a godling in a stand-up fight in close quarters. _Thank God Bruce is a beta. An alpha Hulk really doesn't bear thinking about right now._ And if Fury or Hill came to check on the situation at the Tower... things could get ugly in a hurry. He straightened his shoulders, setting his feet in a parade-rest stance, but kept his hands in front of him, at the ready. And did his best to ignore the insistent odor wafting up from that spot on his trousers, and from behind the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write. Apparently I like making poor Steve squirm. (And, um, do _other_ things...) This was where I had the most fun with A/B/O tropes, I think.

More than six and a half hours had passed since JARVIS had informed him of the other Avengers' return, and no one had approached the corridor where Steve stood guard. His erection had subsided – _It's true what they say: you can adjust to any smell after long enough exposure. Though Tony's scent is a lot more pleasant than that latrine ditch the Commandos took cover in for thirty-six hours while we were hiding from Hydra patrols that time_ – but his arousal rumbled in the back of his mind like a dozing lion, ready to spring to life at the sound of a breathy moan coming from the door behind him.

A tiny flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision: the indicator lights above the elevator at the end of the hall. Someone was coming. Automatically Steve dropped into one of the unarmed combat stances he'd managed to pick up during basic training, his gaze fixed on the elevator doors.

The elevator chimed softly and opened to reveal Clint, wearing civilian garb and apparently unarmed save for a messenger bag carried on one shoulder. He took a single step out of the elevator, just enough to keep the doors from swallowing him up when they closed behind him, and raised his empty hands in a peaceful gesture. "It's just me, Cap."

"Not really in the mood to socialize," Steve replied warningly, feeling aggression surge through him; his territorial instincts only vaguely recognized the archer as a beta.

Clint made a placating gesture with his upraised hands. "I know. I'm not gonna stay long. But we figured that you were probably going to be here for a while, and even though I told Natasha you'd grabbed some bottled water and rations from the Quinjet," he tried to peer around Steve to spot the bag, which was conspicuously absent, "...she said you would've left them with Tony. Looks like she was right." When Steve didn't drop out of his ready stance, Clint sighed. "Listen, I understand. JARVIS has the building locked down, authorized personnel only, but I get that you can't be too careful with something like this. But heats can last what, three, four days?"

"I'm fine," Steve growled.

Hawkeye shook his head. "Maybe you can make it that long with no sleep, but we know about your metabolic needs. Here," Clint opened the bag, pulling out a handful of energy bars and brandishing them. "Still factory-sealed in their original packaging. You can look them over yourself." He stuffed them back in, and withdrew a bottle of water. "Natasha said you'd be uneasy about accepting anything from us right now – and given the circumstances, I'm choosing not to take that personally," he joked. "But watch." Clint unscrewed the cap from the water bottle and drank, tipping his head back to pour a stream of water into his mouth from a few inches above. "Okay?" At Steve's nod, he replaced the cap and returned the bottle to the bag. "I'll just toss this over, and then I'll get going. Just so you know, Natasha plans to stick to her own floor until things are back to normal. We'll see you then, all right, Cap?"

Steve forced himself to relax his stance a little. "See you then," he agreed.

Clint nodded, and took the messenger bag from his shoulder. He lobbed it in a slow arc down the corridor, deliberately aiming it to land about three-quarters of the way to the door at which Steve stood. Then he reached behind him and pressed the elevator's call button, backing into the cab when the doors opened.

Steve made no move toward the supplies until the elevator was three floors away. Once his instincts allowed him to stand down, he stalked toward the bag, snatched it up, and jogged back to his post. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until Clint had shown him the water. Without stopping for breath, he drained one of the water bottles completely. Of course, that brought another pressing physiological need to the fore a few moments later. A thought flitted briefly through Steve's mind before he could quash it. _No, I'm not marking the door. Tony isn't mine; I don't have a right to claim him. He's just damn sure not anybody else's, either._ He surprised himself a little with the vehemence of that thought. Tony was a friend and a teammate, but he respected Tony's choice not to pursue a lasting relationship with an alpha, so he'd never really let himself think about the other man in that context. Was it just the hormones pushing his mind in that direction, or …? He shrugged off the idea, having more immediate concerns to address. Unfastening the front of his trousers, which had thankfully dried and the smell faded, he pressed himself against the lip of the empty water bottle and proceeded to fill it. He spared a moment to hope there weren't any security cameras on this floor – though knowing Tony, he doubted he'd be so lucky.

* * *

The lights in the corridor never dimmed, but according to JARVIS, it was about three-thirty in the morning. Steve scrubbed at his eyes and resisted the temptation to lie down in front of the closet for a little while. _I'll be fine in a couple of hours; I just need to get my second wind._ Instead, he pulled one of the energy bars out of Clint's messenger bag and tore open the wrapper. It had that _artificial_ taste that a lot of food in this century had, underneath the grain, nuts, and … chocolate? But it was food, and it helped wake him up a little. He let the wrapper fall to the floor beside his "used" water bottle and leaned against the door, head tipping back to rest on the solid wood.

It took him a minute to realize that the repetitive vibration he felt resounding through his skull wasn't the onset of a headache; instead, it was coming from the door behind him. Turning, he touched the wood with his hand. The vibration, and soft scraping sound that accompanied it, was barely detectable when he wasn't leaning against the door, but he traced it to the upper left-hand corner. He frowned.

"Tony, stop trying to unscrew the hinges."

The scraping stopped. "Steve? You're still there?" Something deep in Steve's chest ached at the need – and the surprise – in Tony's voice. "Let me out of here. I can't – I need to get out, I need – God, I need you to fuck me."

Steve hadn't known it was possible to get an erection that fast, but he was already at full-mast and throbbing in time with his quickening pulse. "That's not going to happen, Tony," he said, straining to keep his tone calm and even.

There was silence for a moment, just long enough to make Steve wonder if Tony had accepted his situation, until, "Then just let me out, and I'll take care of myself. No need to bother you. Just... please. I can't stay here. I just need to _fuck."_

He rested his forehead against the door, trying not to think about how thin the wood was, and how the only thing that kept it standing between him and Tony was a simple twist-knob lock. One little quarter-turn, and the door would open, onto a needy and willing–

_But that's the problem. He's_ not _willing. If he was, he wouldn't have been so careful about his suppressants, or so panicked when he realized he was going into heat. Or he would have just said to me two months ago, "Sure, Steve, if that ever happens, go ahead and mate with me; I trust you." He didn't say that. He said he'd rather be locked in a closet than mated against his will._ Steve snatched away the hand that had started creeping toward the doorknob. "No, Tony. You need to stay right where you are. It won't be much longer." _Another sixty hours at the earliest,_ he thought, grimacing.

No response emerged from the other side of the door. Steve closed his eyes and pressed one palm against the smooth wood, wishing, _willing_ this ordeal to be easier on his friend. He stayed that way a while longer, until he heard faint clattering and shuffling noises from inside the closet. Steve braced himself for another escape attempt, trying to remember if there was a ventilation duct inside the closet big enough to crawl through. He was about to pose that question to JARVIS when a very different sound slipped through the door.

A moan, unmistakeably in Tony's voice, of sexual pleasure; Steve's cock, which had just started to soften, instantly came back to attention. Steve turned his head, pressing an ear against the door. He heard a soft, drawn-out groan, followed by a sharp whimper, and then, "Fuck, yes, that's it..." It was obvious what was happening in there, and Steve's imagination began trying to guess what Tony was using to pleasure himself. _Is he using his fingers, or did he find something in the closet to fuck himself with? If he found a screwdriver, there must be more tools in there. That'd be just like Iron Man, to use tools as sex toys._

The mental image of Tony lying on his back, legs splayed, with the handle of a hammer shoved halfway up his wet and eager ass, was just too much. Steve unfastened the front of his trousers and pulled out his cock, pausing just long enough to strip off his uniform gloves before wrapping a hand around his shaft. Glistening fluid was already dripping from the slit, and he rubbed it all around the head with his thumb. Steve bit his lip, stifling a growl of his own; he wouldn't add any more fuel to Tony's fire if he could help it.

Twelve hours of pheromones and frustrated arousal caught up with him in an avalanche, and his strokes up and down his shaft grew harder and faster. He kept his eyes shut tight, imagining Tony in front of him, on all fours with his ass in the air, looking at Steve over his shoulder, eyes dark with lust. Imagined Tony pinned against the closet door, his legs wrapped around Steve's waist, with Steve's cock buried to the hilt inside him. The whimpers and moans that Tony supplied from the other side of the door made the fantasy all the more deliciously, vividly real. He felt his knot begin to swell, and wrapped the thumb and middle finger of his left hand snugly around the base of it, to simulate the tight ring of muscle that was Tony's opening. His thrust hard into his fist, and bit back a triumphant roar as he finally came. His arm pumped in long, steady strokes throughout his orgasm, milking every last drop of semen that his cock could give.

He let the door support his weight, with his face pressed almost lovingly against the wood, until his breathing started to even out again and his legs felt a little steadier. When he stepped back, he saw the thick ropes and splotches of pearly fluid oozing slowly down the entire lower half of the closet door. _Guess I ended up marking it after all,_ Steve thought, feeling his face heating with embarrassment. _Wonder if it'll stain..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who's commented or kudos'ed -- I really appreciate the feedback!
> 
> This chapter touches briefly on some of the biology elements I've worked out for the A/B/O-verse; if anyone's interested in more detail, I can add a note about it at the end of the chapter. I think one of the most fun parts of writing A/B/O is the world-building.
> 
> Poor Steve. Poor Tony. Poor everybody.

The next three days weren't hell; _war_ was hell, as General Sherman had once famously stated – and Steve Rogers had been to war, had seen hell. Standing outside a broom closet where Tony was alternately begging him for release and fucking himself with whatever implements came to hand for three days and nights without more than a few moments' rest wasn't hell. But Steve was more than willing to consider it Purgatory.

Around noon on the fourth day, there was a knock on the door at Steve's back. It wasn't a frenzied pounding this time, as he had heard so many times since turning the lock; rather, it was almost businesslike. Cautiously, he stepped away from the door and turned to face it. "Tony?"

"Yeah, Steve," came Tony's voice, raised just enough to be heard clearly through the wood. "I think it's over."

Despite how intently he'd been anticipating those words for the last seventy-two hours, a twist of apprehension seized Steve's gut. "Are you sure?"

"Well, I'm a lot more concerned about having a shower and getting out of all this dust than I am about getting laid. And that's unusual for me on an _average_ day."

Steve sighed. "All right." He reached out and twisted the lock into the open position, and then turned the knob and pushed the door open. Tony caught the edge of the door in one hand, and stood standing in the open doorway, mostly naked. The _Metallica_ shirt he'd been wearing earlier had been stripped off and conscripted as emergency shorts; Tony's legs emerged from the sleeves, and the lightning from the band logo arced up toward his waist, where the bottom of the t-shirt was gathered and tied off in a lumpy knot to keep it from sliding down his hips. The arc reactor cast a blue glow on the exposed flesh of his chest and stomach. Steve tried not to stare.

"The boxers were a lost cause," Tony explained, jerking a thumb behind him toward the depths of the closet. "There's a bucket back there that we're gonna want to just throw out. You don't wanna go in there," he warned, holding up a hand as Steve started to move. "You probably haven't had the pleasure, but the beginning of an unexpected heat isn't all rainbows and kittens, gastrointestinally. I'll send Dummy up to deal with it if he's knocked anything over in the lab while I've been gone." Whatever expression crossed Steve's face in response made Tony quirk an eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that; he doesn't have any olfactory sensors."

Steve moved aside so Tony could step out into the hallway. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Tony looked startled. "What? Yeah – I'm fine. Listen, I'm sorry about–" he gestured vaguely at the closet, "–you know. And sometimes people just don't... Anyway, forget about it. Everything's fine. We can still work together, right? I've got a lot of work to catch up on, so I should just get going. Catch you later, Cap." He hurried down the corridor in the direction of the elevator, as fast as his makeshift garment would allow.

Steve's brow furrowed as he watched the elevator door close, carrying Tony away. _Something's wrong. Tony apologized – he never apologizes, let alone for something that isn't his fault. He couldn't have been that embarrassed, could he?_ Steve sniffed the air experimentally; the heat-scent had gone stale, and was beginning to fade, even in the narrow space of the closet. It was definitely over. Backing out of the closet again, he tried – and failed – not to notice the mop on the floor, the end of the handle glistening with wetness almost a foot of the way up its length.

He left the closet door ajar, in case Tony did send the robot up to take care of the mess, and carefully gathered up the discarded food wrappers and "recycled" water bottles, tucking them back into the empty messenger bag until he could dispose of them properly. Then he headed for the stairwell that would lead him back to his own rooms. It would be easier to figure out what was the matter with Tony once he was rested enough to string two thoughts together. Now that he no longer had to stand sentry, his eyelids were starting to lose the battle against gravity, and he just wanted to make it to his bed before they waved the white flag.

* * *

The red digital numbers hovering in the darkness beside Steve's bed told him that it was just past 2330 hours; thankfully, Tony had shown him how to set the clock to military time, so he wasn't stuck guessing whether it was morning or night. _Tony._ The strange uncertainty the other man had displayed came rushing back to him, banishing the few lingering vestiges of sleep from his head.

Steve's mind continued to circle Tony's odd behavior during the quick shower he took to expunge the three days of neglect his personal hygiene had suffered, his thoughts spiraling like predatory birds trying to find the best angle on their target. _He almost seemed embarrassed. I've never seen Tony Stark embarrassed in the entire time I've known him; the man has no shame._ Toweling off, he pulled a clean white undershirt over his head. _Then what was it?_ He used the mirror to help fasten the buttons of his shirt. It still messed with Steve's head sometimes, being this _tall._ His frame filled most of the mirror, which wasn't quite wide enough to encompass his shoulders at this distance. He would present quite an imposing figure – if he were wearing trousers.

_Vulnerability,_ Steve thought, reaching for his underwear. He thought of Tony standing in the corridor, clad only in an improvised loincloth made from his shirt, with his arc reactor exposed, and having just come out of one of the most suggestible states he'd experienced in years. Of course that would make him uncomfortable; that explained everything–

Almost. One sentence echoed uneasily in Steve's mind: _"We can still work together, right?"_ Now that he was no longer too exhausted to think straight, Steve wouldn't be able to rest any more until he knew what had made Tony question that. He yanked his other boot on and tied it, then headed out the door in the direction of the elevator.

The music blasting in the workshop was turned up loud enough that it took JARVIS four tries to alert Tony that Steve was waiting at the door. A few long moments passed before the volume dropped to merely deafening, and the light beside the door blinked from red to green. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.

Tony, now fully dressed and smelling of solder, engine oil, and Chinese takeout rather than omega pheromones, was using a tablet computer to manipulate some kind of graph displayed holographically in front of him. He didn't look up from his work when Steve entered the workshop. "Now isn't the best time," he shouted over the screaming guitar chords, "I'm four days behind on these Quinjet tactical navigation upgrades, and I haven't even touched the Mark IX specs in a week."

"This can't wait," Steve said, straining to be heard over the music without yelling. "We need to talk. Preferably without screaming at each other."

"JARVIS, music off." As the noise died, Tony spun around on his stool, facing Steve for the first time since he'd walked in the room. Despite his otherwise relaxed posture, there was tension in his shoulders. "All right; shoot."

Generally, trying to follow Tony in a conversation was like juggling fish: there were too many things happening at once, all of them hard to grab onto, and all going in different directions. Given the rare opportunity to steer the subject, Steve decided on the direct approach. "Why did you ask if we could keep working together?"

Tony glanced down at the tablet in his hand, fiddling with something on the screen. "Well, this whole Avengers Initiative business is pretty important, what with saving the planet twice a month and all. I mean, I've got plenty of other stuff going on, but you guys would be _lost_ without me."

"Then why did you think we might not keep doing it?"

Still not looking at Steve, Tony shrugged. "Interpersonal conflicts negatively impact unit cohesion; I've gotten the lecture from Fury enough times, I could recite it in my sleep. For all I know, I have – JARVIS, do I talk in my sleep?"

"Rarely, Sir, and never anything suitable for mixed company," the crisp tones of the AI replied.

Steve frowned, holding up a hand to forestall Tony's next verbal sally. "Wait – what interpersonal conflicts?"

The stiffening of Tony's posture was obvious as he set the tablet down on the workbench and raised his gaze to meet Steve's eyes. "Whatever your problem with me is, Rogers, I think the level of your disgust is pretty obvious after what happened back there."

This was the very _last_ thing Steve had expected him to say. _No, this wasn't even on the list._ He stared at Tony for a moment. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Apparently even a mild oath coming from Captain America surprised Tony – or maybe it was Steve's sincere confusion that gave him pause. But he rallied quickly. "You don't need to spare my feelings. I understand high school biology as well as anyone – in fact, a lot better than most people."

"Well I apparently don't," Steve replied, "because I have no idea what you're getting at."

Tony rolled his eyes. "When an omega goes into heat, the body gives off pheromones to attract nearby alphas, who are excited by the scent and take the first available opportunity to fuck the omega cross-eyed. Unless there's something about the omega that utterly repels them, apparently."

He searched Tony's face for some sign that all of this was some sort of elaborate prank on the other man's part, but Tony seemed deadly serious. "You _wanted_ me to mate with you?"

Tony waved away the question. "What I wanted isn't the point; _you_ clearly didn't."

"Actually, what you wanted is _exactly_ the point, Tony."

Now it was the other man's turn to be confused. "What?"

"A couple of months ago," Steve began, "we talked about this exact situation, and what I should do if you went into an unplanned heat. Remember?"

"Sure, vaguely," Tony frowned. "You were worried that my backups wouldn't be enough to stop it from happening."

Steve nodded. "Right. And you said that if my concerns ever came true, you wanted to be locked away somewhere. I got the impression you didn't want to bond with anyone without agreeing ahead of time." Maybe Tony just didn't recall their conversation, and reminding him would clear everything up. Or maybe Steve was the one who had misunderstood him; there might have been some sarcasm that Steve hadn't caught.

"Yeah, _ideally._ But reality is another story, and my track record is a series of near-misses with the worst-case scenario. I wasn't expecting miracles." He said it so casually – like it was _nothing._

As the implications sank in, Steve felt a torrent of anger flare through his veins. Turning away from Tony, he started pacing. "Are you saying you thought I would mate with you against your will, after you'd explicitly told me otherwise?"

His sudden shift in mood had blindsided Tony, who was now on his feet as well, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Whoa, Cap, relax. I just meant, you're an alpha; that's what alphas do."

"That's not what _friends_ do," Steve growled. "You told me you didn't want to bond. There's no way I would force it on you after that – even if it drove me half out of my mind."

"Drove you – what?" The naked confusion on Tony's face was somehow satisfying.

Steve glanced up at the ceiling. "JARVIS, do you have security footage from that hallway?"

"Yes, Captain," came the prompt response from the computer voice. "I have a digital archive of security recordings from optical sensors throughout the Tower."

On some level, he knew he was going to regret this later, but Steve Rogers never backed down from a fight. "Play back the first night, starting just after Tony tried to take the door off its hinges." The holographic image of the project Tony had been working on earlier vanished, and was replaced by a picture of Steve standing in the corridor with his hand on the closet door. As he watched the image of himself try to reach longingly through the wood, press his face against the closet door, and finally open his fly and start furiously masturbating, humiliation finally broke through Steve's shield of anger. He felt his face burning all the way to his ears. As the miniature light-image of himself ejaculated all over the door, Steve muttered to JARVIS, "Play all similar incidents over the following three days," and turned away from the projection to look at the man beside him.

Tony was staring at the image, his expression unreadable. "I hope that reassures you," Steve growled, and was out the door before the other man had a chance to react. He was already berating himself for showing Tony those recordings, predicting a never-ending stream of snide remarks – and possibly a special feature during one of the team's movie nights. Without his making a conscious decision, Steve's hand reached for the floor button that would take him to the gym level; he needed to spend some time not thinking.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a look at Tony's perspective!
> 
> I hope this isn't too short; it seemed like the logical place for a chapter break.

The recordings continued to play for another several minutes. Tony watched, rapt, as Steve opened his pants and shamelessly pleasured himself over and over again, every time focused intently on the closet door as though it contained something precious. The time-stamps indicated the footage was taken from all hours of the day and night, over the course of the three days following the first incident. "JARVIS," Tony asked softly, "how often did Steve come and stand by that door?"

"From the time you were locked inside, he did not leave it until you emerged to return to your rooms," JARVIS told him.

Tony looked up sharply. "You mean he stood vigil there the whole four days? When did he sleep?"

"At 12:17 PM this afternoon, Sir."

"You're telling me he got no sleep the entire time I was in there?" Tony demanded.

There was a brief pause. "Captain Rogers experienced several brief periods of REM activity while leaning against the closet door. The longest lasted twenty-four minutes."

Tony sat down heavily on the stool – and winced, as he hadn't fully recovered from his overly-eager adventures with the mop handle. _Four days straight with only a few minutes of sleep at a time, just so he could stand guard outside my door. So nobody could mate with me without my permission, including him, even though he was dying to fuck me senseless. Because I told him once, months ago, that I didn't want it._ The idea was hard to get his mind around: someone cared about what he wanted so much that they'd lose four days of sleep and fight down their most primal urges just to respect his wishes.

"Play the rest of it," Tony said, looking up at the space where the last video clip had ended.

"Sir?" JARVIS asked.

"The whole thing, from when I went in the closet onward," he clarified, tucking one foot up on the rung of the stool.

Tony suspected that if he could, JARVIS would politely clear his throat. He'd have to see about adding that feature to the AI's programming. "That includes more than ninety-two hours of digital recording, Sir."

"I'll order a pizza when Illiano's opens; remind me," he replied, settling into a more comfortable position on the stool. "Just show me."

* * *

Contrary to the assumptions of most people who interacted with him, Tony's rather obscene wealth had not led him to the belief that he could have anything he wanted. Sure, if it could be ordered from the internet, it was his for the clicking, and he'd been known to simply buy out businesses that annoyed him. His money could – and did – get him labor, attention, and favors.

But there were some things that he knew all too well were beyond its reach, and all the money in the world would never change that. Like Captain America. From the time Tony was old enough to understand Howard's stories – which Tony's mother had told him half the time, because his father was away on business or working on an important project – he knew that the Captain was more brave, honorable, and genuinely _good_ than anyone Tony would ever meet. Despite their initial friction during the Chitauri invasion, he had come to grudgingly acknowledge that everything he'd been told about Steve Rogers was true, and then some. _It's hard to reach a guy well enough to seduce him, when the pedestal you've put him on is so tall. Not that Cap needs any help in the height department._

The reason watching the archived feed of the corridor JARVIS showed him left Tony at such a loss was the way Cap had looked at him, through the closet door that stood between them. With anyone else, he would've written it off as an effect of the pheromones – but the pheromones had been telling Cap to tear the door off its hinges and fuck Tony until he gagged on super-soldier cock. Something else had stayed his hand, and it wasn't lack of attraction.

It took Tony nearly five days to marathon the entire security archive of that hallway during the time-frame of his heat; JARVIS had insisted on occasional sleep breaks, and Tony's body hadn't recovered enough yet to power through on coffee and stubbornness. There was something in those recordings that he needed to find, even if he wasn't sure quite what it was, and he applied himself to the task with every scrap of obsessive determination he'd give to building his suits or his robots. There were a few moments, when he'd catch the expression on Cap's holographic face as he caressed the door that separated him and Tony, or when six hours passed without any movement from the big man's image except for his eyes, always alert, _protecting him,_ that an odd fluttering deep within Tony's abdomen made him think he'd almost figured it out.

When the security recording finished, Tony grabbed his tablet and started trying to brainstorm, but rather than sketching out wire-frame schematics, he was trying to capture the ideas and feelings swirling around in his head. He regretted sending Pepper to China on that negotiation for access to sustainably-mined rare-earth metals; she understood other people a lot better than he did. _Hell, sometimes I think Dummy understands other people better than I do._ He paused, fingers hovering over the tablet screen, and considered. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Sir."

Tony set the tablet down on the workbench beside him, stretching a little. "I could use your help with something."

"Of course; how may I assist?" Unless Tony was imagining it, the AI sounded relieved.

He took a breath, as deep as the arc reactor would permit. "I think something is different between me and Rogers, after what happened. Not the fight – I know I screwed that up and I'm gonna have to fix it somehow – but before then. I mean, maybe Rogers _really is_ that much of a saint that he'd stand guard for four days straight outside anybody's door, or at least any of his team. But it seemed like more than that."

"The Captain is an alpha," JARVIS pointed out. "It's possible that his aroused instincts manifested in protective behavior.

Tony shook his head. "It wasn't just instinct, though. If that was all, he would've had that door open and bent me over one of those boxes of copy paper before I could say 'double penetration.' Hell, we wouldn't even have made it to the closet. Something else was keeping him close, but preventing him from touching me."

"I believe Captain Rogers himself explained the reason for the latter course of action, Sir," the AI reminded him crisply. "He did not wish to take advantage of your physical and psychological state."

 _Didn't want to take advantage._ How many people in Tony's life could he say that of? He could count them on one hand with fingers left over – even after chopping one off for Stane. The only thing the others – Pepper, Rhodey, Happy – had in common was that they'd seen him at his worst, and cared about him for reasons that had nothing to do with his last name, his money, or his genius. How did Captain America get added to that group?

The security feed had frozen on the last frame, after it had caught up with the present. The holographic image showed Tony in mid-escape from the awkward conversation he'd had with Rogers once the door had opened; only the top of Tony's head was in the frame, but the camera had a clear shot of Rogers's expression as he watched him go. The undisguised worry and regret on his face were clear enough even for Tony to recognize, but there was something else as well. Tony wasn't sure whether he was imagining it, or if he really saw affection and desire in the other man's eyes. He felt a faint stirring of hope somewhere behind his arc reactor that it wasn't all in his head.

"Yeah," Tony replied vaguely. "What time is it, anyway?"

"It is 7:41 PM. The other Avengers are just finishing dinner."

"Great. That gives me time to grab a shower," he declared, bending his head down to smell himself, "and change into something I haven't been wearing for almost a week."

"Do you plan to speak with the Captain, Sir?" JARVIS asked.

The corner of Tony's mouth twisted up into a grin. "Yeah, JARVIS, I do." He headed for the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end at last! Again, I'm sorry if this is a bit short -- but the boys finally managed to figure out how to talk like grown-ups. Enjoy!

When Tony walked into the communal kitchen, Steve was washing dishes in the sink. He half-expected a remark about not using the electric dishwasher, but maybe Tony had gotten used to his "old-fashioned" habits by now. Or maybe he didn't feel like engaging in lighthearted teasing with Steve after the way their last conversation had ended.

Tony focused on him immediately, as though he'd been expecting to find Steve there. He smiled. "What'd I miss for dinner?"

"Eggplant Parmesan, Bruce's recipe," Steve replied. "We saved you a plate." He nodded at the dish covered in aluminum foil, waiting to go in the fridge as soon as Steve had finished with the dishes.

Eyes widening, Tony wandered over to the food and unwrapped it, tossing the foil aside. "Bacon-wrapped asparagus?" he asked, picking one up with his fingers and taking a bite. "Whose idea was that?"

"Natasha's," he explained. "Clint insisted on something with meat, I wanted green vegetables, so she decided to shut us both up. They're surprisingly good."

Murmuring agreement with his mouth full, Tony rummaged in the silverware drawer for a fork. Steve let his gaze fall into the sink, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at the cooked-on bits stuck to the skillet. He tried to swallow down the lump of guilt in his throat, remembering how harsh he'd been a few days ago. After cooling down, he'd slowly realized that Tony hadn't been accusing _him_ of anything. What he'd said was simply how he expected people to treat him. "I'm sorry about the other day," he said softly. "I shouldn't have blown up at you like that."

A forkful of pasta stopped halfway to Tony's mouth. "What? No, don't worry about it; it was my fault. I'm so used to dealing with all of _them,"_ he gestured vaguely at the window, indicating the world beyond the glass, "that I forgot for a second that I was talking to you. You're different than most of the assholes who demand my time on a daily basis. You're... I don't know, special."

_Special._ The memory that word brought up stung a little, given how much his regard for Tony had risen in all the months they'd fought side by side. "That's not what you said when we first met," he observed wryly, trying to turn it into a joke.

Tony set the fork down. "I know; I was being an idiot. It's something I do surprisingly often, for a man of my genius."

Feeling the muscles in his neck relax a little, Steve rinsed the last dish and set it into the rack beside the sink. "There was a lot of that going around that day," he replied, a hint of genuine smile touching his lips.

"Not gonna argue with that." Tony dragged one of the breakfast stools over and perched on it. "Grab a seat," he invited.

Steve poured himself a glass of water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge – there were some modern amenities that he was more than happy to adopt, and anything that saved him from the atrocity that municipal tap water had become was definitely on the list – and took a seat beside Tony at the breakfast bar. "You actually found the time for a sit-down meal?"

"I just finished up a major project, and I figured I could use the break. And the company," he added.

"Congratulations," Steve told him, and took a sip of water. "Any big breakthroughs?"

An odd smile crossed Tony's features. "You could say that. At least, I think I learned something." He took another bite of pasta, and then tried to speak through it. "Thank you, by the way."

"For dinner?" Steve asked. "I didn't cook – not the main course, anyway."

Tony arched an eyebrow, swallowing the mouthful. "What _did_ you cook?"

"Dessert. Peach cobbler." Tony perked up at that, but Steve waved a hand dismissively. "It's not even baking, really. Just cut up some fruit, dump flour and butter on top, and throw it in the oven. Nothing special."

"Did you save any of this not-special dessert, by any chance?"

Steve shrugged, glancing away. "I might have hidden a bowl before serving it. For safe-keeping."

Tony rolled his eyes. "I know, I know: 'Finish your dinner, or you don't get any dessert.' That's not what I was thanking you for, by the way."

Steve frowned. "Then what?"

"Last week," Tony replied, making a rolling gesture with his free hand, "you know – everything."

"You don't need to thank me for that, Tony," he protested. "I was just–"

"–doing the only thing you could've done, being you," Tony finished for him. "I know. And I want to thank you for that, too." A tentative hand reached out and touched his forearm, fingers curling lightly around it. "I'm glad to have you around, Steve."

He smiled; his first name sounded good in Tony's voice. When the hand on his arm didn't retreat right away, Steve brought his other hand up to cover it. "Good, 'cause I was thinking I might stick around for a while. Somebody gave me this really nice set of rooms. And the company's not bad."

Tony turned his wrist so that his palm was facing Steve's, and squeezed gently. "You sure the bed's all right? I was afraid it might be too big, for just one."

Steve stifled a chuckle. _Subtlety isn't Tony's strong point._ But he slid his chair a little closer, and laid his now-free arm across the back of Tony's stool. "I'll ask you to look into that issue eventually. But before we do too much redecorating, I should bring you to dinner a few more times first. Who knows, we might even leave the Tower." The small smile on Tony's face, and the way he leaned just slightly against Steve's arm, made him warmer than he'd felt in a long time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Impulse Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246306) by [AngeNoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir)




End file.
